“I owe you an apology.”
She shook her head.
“For what?”
“For letting you think I could only see the lie.”
Célestine considered his words.
“You had every reason to be angry.”
“I was angry.”
“I know.”
He looked down at his coffee.
“But I also missed you.”
She stared at him.
Then smiled faintly.
“You have an inconvenient way of saying things.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Célestine turned her cup slowly.
“I missed you too.”
Alaric looked up.
For a moment, he seemed almost surprised.
Then he smiled.
Not the polite smile he used in meetings.
The real one.
The one she’d first seen beside the harbour.
They did not become a couple that afternoon.
Célestine wasn’t ready.
Alaric understood.
For months, they met occasionally in Paris and Rouen.
They visited exhibitions.
Walked through old neighbourhoods.
Argued about architecture.
Discovered that they could enjoy each other’s company without turning every conversation into a question about the future.
Sometimes Alaric travelled for work.
Sometimes Célestine was too busy to see him.
Neither demanded explanations.
They learned the difference between closeness and possession.
In September, Alaric invited her to Menton.
“I thought we could visit the old villa,” he said.
“Did your company finally buy it?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because there’s something I’d like to show you.”
She hesitated.
Then agreed.
They travelled by train.
When they arrived, the town was warm with late-summer sunlight.
The harbour looked almost exactly as Célestine remembered.
The same cafés.
The same pale buildings.
The same sound of boats moving gently against their moorings.
Alaric took her to the terrace overlooking the water.
The place where they’d watched the fireworks.
Célestine leaned against the railing.
“I remember this.”
“So do I.”
She looked toward the sea.
“We were strangers.”
“Technically.”
She smiled.
“You didn’t even know my surname.”
“And you ruined my jacket.”
“I apologised.”
“Several times.”
“Would you like another?”
“Perhaps later.”
She laughed.
Alaric turned toward her.
“Célestine.”
She looked at him.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to begin something because we miss what might have happened.”
Her smile softened.
“Neither do I.”
“I’d rather find out what could happen now.”
For a moment, she simply looked at him.
The man who had once seemed untouchable was standing before her without a plan or a perfectly prepared answer.
She reached for his hand.
“Then perhaps we should start with dinner.”
Alaric smiled.
“Dinner?”
“An ordinary dinner.”
“Without inventing a relationship?”
“Preferably.”
He laughed.
“And afterwards?”
Célestine considered.
“Perhaps a walk.”
“Very ambitious.”
“I like to take things slowly.”
Alaric lifted her hand and kissed her fingers.
“For once,” he said, “so do I.”
Two years later, Maison Vesper opened a restored cultural hotel in Menton.
The original Villa Seraphine remained privately owned, but the company had acquired a smaller historic property nearby and restored it with the cooperation of local conservation specialists.
Alaric was no longer managing director.
He had left the executive position after the financial scandal and established an independent heritage consultancy.
Célestine was now director of a small European cultural education program.
They lived together in Paris in an apartment overlooking a quiet courtyard.
Their life was not entirely peaceful.
Alaric still worked too much when he became absorbed in a project.
Célestine still forgot where she’d left her keys.
